


Southside

by proval



Series: Southside Forever [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gap Filler, Homicidal Thoughts, Homophobia, Illegal Activities, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PTSD-like symptoms, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Season/Series 10, Wedding, Wedding Planning, s10e11, s10e12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proval/pseuds/proval
Summary: But Mickey’s going to make the bastard suffer. Since he’s back Southside, might as well act like it. What’s one or two more parole violations in the grand scheme of things, anyway?Mickey POV gap filler for 10x11 and 10x12.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Southside Forever [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767688
Comments: 43
Kudos: 206





	Southside

He’s in his bathroom. It smells how it always smells. Stagnant. It’s the only goddamn working toilet in the house and Mickey can’t count the times he’s hidden out in here. And whoever the fuck designed this house has a lot to answer for. You have to walk through Mickey’s room to get here. 

Something soft and with a heartbeat is nestled in his hands and Mickey doesn’t know what it’s doing here. This is a place for knives and guns. This is a place where you have to hit first before you get hit. How the hell is this thing, this tiny soft thing, meant to survive in a place like this? It’s too small. It’s too vulnerable. It’s too tender. It shouldn’t be here. It _can’t_ be here. How the fuck is he meant to protect it? 

It’s not fair. Why does he have to protect it? Why can’t someone help him? 

Who the fuck is protecting _him_? 

On the other side of the door, there’s quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that tips into chaos with a dumb word or the wrong kind of look or movement or sound. Mickey _knows_ there’s always a reason even if he can’t figure it out sometimes. There are his brothers who have lice and stolen weed. There’s his little sister. Jamie hit her when she cried about their mom. She won’t do that anymore. And Mickey knows he can’t cry about it either. Not even because his Gameboy Color got pawned. The last present she gave him. The Milkovich kids learn lessons fast. And good. Because thank fuck dad wasn’t there. Because dad gets everywhere. Dad’s the law and the punishment. Dad’s the air they breathe. 

And Mickey can’t look after it. He doesn’t need it. He has no use for it here. He needs something hard and sharp. Something that can make people bleed. Not this. Not this tender snuffling quiet thing. It’ll only get him in trouble. In deep shit. He closes his eyes. And he prays to God. The God that he’s been told by almost everyone doesn’t exist. Mickey’s pretty sure they’re right. But still Mickey prays to God because right now he hopes He does exist, or She or It or Them, because he wants _someone_ to hear what he’s thinking. To know what’s happening to him. He thinks every kid like him, every little kid with secrets, hopes there’s someone out there to listen to them. _I can’t look after it_. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. _It’s not safe here._

_Please._

_I need something strong. Something hard. Something I can fight with._

_Please._

Mickey’s prayer comes out of him like cigarette smoke, delicately curling upwards to the other tobacco stains on the ceiling. Mickey’s always liked to watch the way smoke dances as it rises. And he wonders where it goes. Does it just taper out and disappear, like the embers that snuffle out in the ashtray? Or does it go out infecting other people’s lungs? People who didn’t ask for it and don’t want it? And this time, it’s a message. To anyone. It might hurt people but Mickey doesn’t really care. He needs them to hear it. To feel it. 

_Who’s fucking house does he think this is?_

The yellow stain on the tiles above starts to bubble. The ceiling blisters like burnt skin. And the blisters pop. They burst and drip hot rain. It scalds Mickey’s shoulders. His scalp. A gash cuts through the dribbling fizzing mess. The ceiling cracks. Pours down. 

Mickey ducks. Shields the thing in his hands. There’s a tap at the window. The doorknob twists and the shitty lock rattles. The whole wall shakes. 

_Come on, come on, come on, come on_

And maybe it’s working. It’s growing cold. The thing in his hands. Its heartbeat slows down. _Thank fuck._

There’s a face in the window. A pair of alarmed blue eyes. A warning. 

It’s too late. It’s cold now and Mickey gets ready to strike. The bathroom door scrapes. It opens. It’s—

“Jesus!” 

—a dream. Another fucking dream... and that’s when Mickey breaks back into the waking world, gasping for air. Knocks his elbow hard into someone’s nose. _Ian’s._ Ian buries his face under the covers. 

“You OK?” Mickey’s voice is sleep-logged, croaky. He sits up. Wipes the heels of his hands over his eyes. His heart’s racing. 

Ian, slowly, comes up again. “Trying to give me another black eye?”

His voice is croakier than Mickey’s, more muffled. But it’s light enough. 

“Ey, fuck you.” 

That comes out much shakier than Mickey’d intended. 

Ian’s eyes ping open. He stares up at Mickey, open mouthed, from the pillow. Something’s on the tip of his tongue, but it fizzles out as Mickey gazes back down at him. 

_Bad dream?_

Ian knows without asking though. He never needs to ask. He reaches out for Mickey’s jaw instead. It’s his left hand. With the ring. Weird and new and cold on Mickey’s skin as Ian’s hand drags across his face. Mickey slowly looks towards the pink sunlight filtering through the curtains and Ian’s thumb lands on his lips, teasing them apart for a second, before dropping off. Reaching for something. His phone probably. 

It’s a warm light so that means it’s early. 

“Six twenty-five.” Ian clarifies, and when Mickey turns back Ian’s face is glowing from the screen. He looks more alive now, his strong arms uncovered, stretching. 

Mickey folds his bottom lip into his mouth. His eyes trace over Ian’s face to check he’s not really bruising up again. Ian looks back at him, quiet and patient. Mickey wants to ask for sex. Something rough. Something to get rid of the lingering adrenaline. Something to make the ache in his jaw disappear. Something to chase the fading remnants of that dream from his mind. But he can’t form the words yet. Or maybe that’s not quite what he wants.

He reaches up to thumb over the faded and almost invisible bruising around Ian’s eye. 

“Mick.” Ian sees something in Mickey’s face that makes him smile. He reaches back to lightly grip the top of Mickey’s arm. He presses a kiss into Mickey’s shoulder. And he says that thing again. That thing he said in prison right before he left. “I got you.” 

Mickey’s heartbeat steadies, starts to match the chest pressing into him. 

*

But that morning, Mickey’s dad shows up. 

“Good talk, Pops.” 

Shoulder-checked and with a lump in his throat, Mickey stares after his dad as he walks away. That familiar walk. One hand in a pocket, casual as anything, as though he hadn’t just threatened to kill his son for being gay. Again. 

And it’s brand new but it’s also a memory, something he’s always known. The ugly thing that twists through Mickey’s stomach, his chest, his throat, even his wrists.

Back inside, Mickey’s surrounded by Gallaghers preoccupied with their own drama. Mickey’s hungry and wide awake. Thirsty. _Really_ fucking thirsty. He doesn’t show it. Offers to forge Frank’s signature. Raises his eyebrows about the lady with the Rolls Royce. He gets a swig of lukewarm coffee and a mouthful of cornflakes once Lip disappears. 

Ian looks out after his brother like he wants to get up and follow him. 

“You ever get me to move to Milwaukee I’ll fucking murder you.” 

Ian sips his coffee. Seems like he doesn’t even hear Mickey. Probably for the best. Mickey’s not proud of the death threats that run in his DNA. At least he would never make good on that one. 

_You must really love cock._  
_I definitely love one._

Mickey shoves another spoonful of cereal in his mouth, takes another long swig of coffee, slips under the table. 

Ian makes a startled sound as Mickey pulls his knees apart. 

“The hell, Mickey?” 

“What?” Mickey demands. He looks up through Ian’s thighs and catches his eyes. 

Ian’s eyelids flit down. His jaw relaxes. He acquiesces even if he doesn’t know where this has come from. But Ian saw Terry earlier. Ian _heard_ Terry. The whole fucking street heard Terry. So maybe he does know. If anyone knows, it’s him. 

Mickey takes Ian’s cock out of his pants, grips the base, puts it in his mouth. Better not be worrying about Lip anymore. 

_You want a little conversion therapy? You suck a dick you die._

Mickey takes it further in. Tries to relax his gag reflex. He hears Ian’s mug hit the table. Thinks about the gun resting right next to it. Imagines pulling that trigger at the right target. Feels Ian’s fingers stretch into his hair. Earlier Mickey thought he might need something else but now… now… Mickey wants to be so full of cock all the other thoughts disappear. 

“Jesus, Mick.” Ian’s hips stutter. His grip tightens. His voice is light but his eyes are intense, staring down at Mickey. He must know. He’s got to know. He doesn’t go there though. “We’re not gonna fucking move, you know.” 

Fucking _good_. No shit. They’re not going anywhere. 

“Holy shit, Mick. OK.” Ian’s already halfway there. His legs begin to shake and he struggles to get enough air. “Just don’t… don’t do something… something… stupid.” 

Like _what_? Murder someone? 

_Why wait, bitch? I’m standing right here, Charlottesville._

*

Mickey follows Colin out of the old Buick Century with a cigarette hanging from his lips and the magazine he lifted at the gas station rolled up in his back pocket.

Mickey’s thought about killing Terry a million times. Sometimes pretty unimaginatively, it’s just putting a bullet through his brain or suffocating him with a pillow as he sleeps. Other times, it’s turning into ED-209 from _Robocop_ and blasting his dad to death like Mr Kinney. 

Today he’s thinking if the Cobra Assault Cannon actually existed, it sure would be nice to pull the trigger and watch as Terry is engulfed in flames, a limb or two flying fifty yards up the street. 

He’s gotta play sweet and calm at the moment. Mainly for Gallagher. For keeping them both out of the metal motel. But wouldn’t it be something to just empty a vat of acid on top of his old man’s head? Maybe murder’s off the table for the time being, but what’s wrong with a bit of old fashioned torture? Sure, Mickey landed himself in the big boy joint the first time by being a touch too creative with Rohypnol.

But Mickey’s going to make the bastard suffer. Since he’s back Southside, might as well act like it. What’s one or two more parole violations in the grand scheme of things, anyway? 

They haven’t driven far, just round the Back of the Yards to a spot with a bunch of bright uncut grass carpeting the ground. Ahead, there’s a chipped but colorful mural of a black woman framed with sunflowers. 

“S’not bad round here,” Mickey mumbles round the smoke, as they approach a half-open garage door. “Who’s Jamie sucking off to stay at this place?” 

“Sounds like our little cousin,” says a voice from the other side of the door. “Who else is always thinking about dick?” 

The garage clangs all the way open and Jamie emerges from under the metal. Mickey barely has time to flip him off before Sandy follows him out, giggling around a joint. 

“Shit, you in on this too? Thought you were sick of these fuckheads.” 

“Nice new jewelry, Mick.” Jamie smiles at Mickey’s middle finger. Or maybe the one next to it. Mickey waggles them both obnoxiously. “Yeah, her morals go out the window when there’s weed and pussy involved.” 

“Who’s don’t?” Colin slides over to borrow the joint as Sandy joins Mickey in flipping her brother off. Mickey feels his anxiety slow down a bit. It’s so easy being around these fuckfaces. 

Maybe Jamie’s feeling it too. He looks at Mickey with a crooked smile and opens up his arms. _Damn_ , they’d never been the type of cousins that hug. But, yeah, it’s been a while. And as casual as they’re playing it, there’s something symbolic about this meeting. Jamie choosing Mickey rather than his uncle. For the time being at least. Mickey lets it happen. 

Mickey pulls back to take his smoke out of his mouth before it runs down. “So where’s the grow house?”

“Outta town. Down the 57.” Jamie turns to go back inside the garage. 

“The fuck?” Mickey follows. Settles down on the out of place well-used brown couch in there. “We gotta factor in a goddamn road trip?” 

He squirms as he feels the magazine digging into his ass. He pulls it out of his pocket. Colin snatches it before Mickey can do anything. “Shithead.” 

“You said you wanted something Terry wasn’t in on.” Jamie hands Mickey a beer. 

“Yeah, last I checked, he’s not running the entire city.” 

Not that pussy. He doesn’t control shit. And usually Mickey’s pretty fucking great at compartmentalizing but he can’t stop the way his mind flips to a smoky backroom and a too big tux. Ian saying something urgent. 

_Your dad..._

He shuts that box quick. Back in the present moment, Jamie’s shrugging down at him. 

“We gotta go twice. Still need to case the place. Guess you’ll have to get used to my German reggae and synth metal.”

Mickey rubs a hand over his face. He’s going to need to grab a few more of those magazines just to keep himself from going insane by the sound of things. Maybe some post-its. A highlighter. 

“And you’re not going to pussy out and tell him about this job?”

“I don’t get why it has to be such a big fucking secret.” Jamie takes a sip of beer. “What d’you need the cash for anyway?” 

Mickey scoffs. But it’s another sign of how things have shifted between them. It’s a question they didn’t used to bother with. There’s never a moment that any of them don’t need money for some necessary shit. 

OK, pulling off an extravagant wedding to piss off his dad might not seem like the most pressing problem. But fuck that. It is. Mickey’s eyes dart over to where Sandy and Colin are passing the joint between them, fascinated by the magazine. 

“Holy shit.” Sandy flips a page and her mouth drops open. “That’s an ugly dress.” 

Jamie approaches them slowly, scrunched up eyebrows, mouth also open. He’s not a rocket scientist by any means but maybe he’s figuring _something_ out. And Mickey reminds himself for the second or third time that day, he doesn’t need to feel ashamed about this shit. 

There’s quiet except the sound of traffic and the soft squealing of the tiny fridge in the corner. The Milkoviches all stare down at the double-page spread in _Bridal Guide_. Eventually, Colin glances up into Mickey’s eyes.

“Don’t think dad’ll like this, bro.”

Mickey runs his teeth over his bottom lip. He can smell that stuffy room again. He can feel the tightness of a bowtie round his neck. 

“Exactly.” 

_Your dad is an evil psychotic prick._  
_You’re just going to let him ruin your life?_

No. Mickey’s not. 

Not anymore. 

* 

It’s been on his mind. That day. Of course it has. Mickey’s worn a ring before after all. It’s the one on Ian’s finger that’s new.

That’s the one Mickey likes the most. 

He’s thinking about that ring, looking forward to seeing it, to feeling it on his skin, when he gets back home. It’s only sort of tainted with the promise ring shit and Mickey wonders if he should get Ian another one. Are you supposed to have two rings? He plans to ask Sandy as he showers. Tidies up his hair.

But it’s another thing, a newer thing, the way that day keeps flashing up, shutting out the present moment. And Mickey’s right _there_ again, like it wasn’t however many years ago. Like it didn’t happen in what might as well be a different lifetime. 

Once he looks nice enough, Mickey takes the magazines down with him. For some reason he’s more nervous about Ian seeing them than he was with his brother and cousins. 

What if Ian flips his lid about how he thinks Mickey’s going to get the cash? Or he thinks the whole thing is too dangerous? What if he hates the venue ideas and the color schemes Mickey’s picked out? What if he doesn’t buy that this is about Terry? (Which it fucking is). 

_What if he doesn’t want it like this?_

Maybe Ian wants them to get married fast and quiet. Doesn’t want to show Mickey off like that. Like that ring when it was round his neck on a chain. Just tucked away underneath his green shirt. 

Mickey tunes out his nerves and leans into his fight reflex, his swagger. It’s easier that way. To demand what you want instead of ask for it. Act like it’s already going to happen either way. 

“Fuck is happening?”

Ian stares at him like he’s grown two heads. It’s not that confusing that Mickey wants a wedding, right? The last of Mickey’s nerves quickly shift to something much more familiar—that special brand of irritation reserved just for Gallagher. Mickey’s skin prickles like it did when his boyfriend picked his teeth in the joint. Come on Ian, catch the fuck up. 

* 

Mickey’s half asleep when Ian joins him. Just shuffles up behind like he’s been doing this past few weeks, usually after a round or two of banging though. The covers are trapped somewhere around Mickey’s feet but Ian doesn’t make for them. He strokes his hand over Mickey’s exposed thigh, up, just under the hem of his cotton boxers and down again so the hair on Mickey’s leg prickles and stands to attention, leaving this tingling sensation that lasts, that spreads through the rest of his leg and around his crotch, lights him up. He’d be down if he wasn’t so tired or if… fuck… to be honest, some stupid question wasn’t reverberating round his head over and over like a metronome. _You really want to marry me?_

“Tryna start something?” Mickey murmurs into the pillow. 

“Why, you wanna?”

Mickey cranes his neck round to face him. He raises an eyebrow. 

“You done your guest list?” 

“No.”

“So I’m sleeping.” 

Mickey settles his head back on his pillow, closes his eyes, even though he knows Ian’s not going to let that lie. 

“Oh… you’re withholding sex now. Pretty sure you’re not meant to use it as a bargaining chip.”

“Withholding sex? Fuck you. How long’s it take to write some names on a piece of paper?”

“Jesus.” Ian rolls away from him. “You only told me about this shit a couple hours ago.” 

“Besides, I already blew you this morning. Why don’t you go jack off and think about that?”

“Oh come the fuck on, Mickey.” Mickey recognizes a fondness in his voice, hidden deep underneath Ian’s quiet exasperation. “Why do we need a bunch of guests there anyway?” 

“Witnesses,” Mickey breathes, softer suddenly. He swallows. “Can’t have enough. You got more friends than me, man.”

He hears Ian shuffle behind him, the ruffle of him bringing his hands up through his hair, the scratch of him running his nails over his scalp. An exhale. His low, quiet voice. 

“Can I hold you at least?” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey says again, reaching back to draw Ian’s arm around him, grip onto his hand. What a question. _Of course._

He hears Ian sigh again. Feels him press a soft kiss to the nape of Mickey’s neck.

“Wouldn’t need witnesses if it was just me and you. Terry wouldn’t even have to hear about it.”

So Terry doesn’t shoot the whole thing up, yeah. That’s some of what Mickey meant.

“Well he fucking knows already.”

Mickey can hear Ian’s soft breathing, can feel the pulse beating in Ian’s wrist in his hand, can see the ring glinting on Ian’s finger.

Mickey’s thinking of that morning again. The feeling of cocking that gun right back in Terry’s face. He imagines if he’d just said fuck it and pulled the trigger. Watched the bullet go through his dad’s skull. Let them both end each other that way. At least he’d get to see his dad fall before he did.

Mickey keeps hold of Ian, shuffling onto his back, catching those green eyes which must have been gazing at the back of his head. 

With them Mickey realizes that was a dumbass trail of thought. 

He unhooks his hand so he can run it through Ian’s red hair for him. 

“You worried about your brother fucking off to Shitsville, Wisconsin?”

Ian raises his eyebrows at the change in topic, looks away for a moment, considering. “Think he’ll get bored in Milwaukee with just Tami and Freddie and take up drinking again?” 

Ian’s eyes are worried when they meet Mickey’s, like he really wants to know Mickey’s opinion. Like he trusts whatever Mickey’s answer will be. Mickey resumes trailing his hand through Ian’s hair, feeling Ian melt back under it. 

“Probably.” 

Ian sighs. Mickey wonders if Ian’s thinking about himself too. If Ian’s going to be able to stay stable without Lip. How Ian’ll miss seeing Freddie grow up. They watch each other for a moment more before Mickey shuffles back onto his side taking Ian’s arm with him, finding himself nearer to sleep when he closes his eyes this time. He’s almost completely gone when he hears Ian’s voice, rumbling next to his ear. 

“The hell we gonna pay for this Mick?” 

“I got savings,” Mickey slurs out, drifting off and leaving behind the sound of Ian clicking his tongue against his teeth, muttering something sleepy and disbelieving into Mickey’s shoulder.

* 

The light’s stuttering on and off in the bathroom—the one with the smoke stains on the ceiling—illuminating mounds of scattered papers on the floor and then casting them in shadow again. In thick cursive silver writing they say _You are invited to…_ And Mickey’s hardly got his bearings before they start to spin around his legs and the door handle starts rattling again, even harder than last time. Before there’s a flood from his throat to his stomach. Adrenaline. Cortisol. Dread. 

He’s been here before and he remembers what he has to do. He has to fight. He needs a weapon. He shuts his eyes and prays for it. The soft warm thing in his hands starts to shift. _Good_. Its heartbeat slows down. It starts to get cold. And Mickey knows he’s losing something. He’s going to lose something he wont find again. Something precious. Something beautiful. _But it’s what he needs. It’s good, right?_. 

_Here, kid._ Someone’s peering in through the window. 

Mickey goes to it. He sees a pair of sharp blue eyes. Black hair. Cut off sleeves revealing bigger arms than Mickey’s. Mickey opens it and a shower of golden rings clatter in on top of him. The man crawls in behind them. 

Mickey doesn’t notice he’s squeezing harder at the thing in his hands, the thing that’s growing colder.

 _Watch it,_ the man says, brushing rings off his bare shoulders which clink onto the bathroom tiles, his voice firm. _Mickey, loosen your grip._

The papers on the floor crease and flutter under the weight of the gold, dripping everywhere. 

_I can’t look after it._ Mickey’s not going to cry. 

The man nods, like he gets it. 

_I know._

Mickey’s nose tingles. Goddamn it, he’s such a pussy. A sensitive bitch. That what dad said. And fuck. Mickey knows it’s true. The heartbeat in his hands has slowed down so much. It’ll stop soon. It’ll go out. 

_Mikhailo,_ says the man, firm again but gentle, like how Mickey’s mom used to say it when he was being a little shit. _Let up._

Mickey loosens his grip. 

The papers flop onto the floor. 

The man exhales, as if some horrible disaster has been averted. The thing between Mickey’s palms starts to wake up, starts to shiver. 

Then, there’s a voice cracking through the door, louder than it should be, shaking the whole room.

 _The hell happened to you?_

Mickey flinches. _Goddamn it_. He has to learn not to do that. But when he opens his eyes he sees the man’s flinched too. He’s opening his eyes too. Cautiously. Slowly. 

When his eyes lock on Mickey’s his expression changes fast from the fear he must read there to something fucking vengeful. 

And that makes Mickey even more scared. _I love dad._

_I know._

The papers start to flap again. Mickey swallows. _I’m not safe. It’s not safe._

 _No. It’s not safe._ The guy leans forwards, holds his hands out towards Mickey. His knuckles are marked with letters. _Give it to me. I’ll look after it for you._

The room shakes. The rings slide and roll under their feet. 

Mickey stares at the man’s cupped hands. Looks up again at his eyes. That hard glint still in them. The man nods. Slow. 

Mickey reaches out to put the small thing, the shivery thing, into the guy’s hands. 

_Just don’t do something… something stupid_

_Shit_. Mickey slips on spinning metal. And they’re all trapped in here. Him and this guy. And this little warm thing between their hands. And Mickey’s hands can’t hold onto it anymore. He’s going to drop it. And—

Ian’s there. Not touching him but in front of him on the bed. Warm body softly snoring facing away from him. Mickey’s ribcage expands and contracts fast, a shiver overtaking him, sweat covering the palms of his hands as though they’re still carrying that precious thing. He presses into Ian’s body, heart thudding out his chest, his mouth somewhere near Ian’s ear. 

“You awake?” 

Ian mumbles something indecipherable. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, hand reaching out to rest on Ian’s side in front of him. He braces himself for what he’s got to ask. “Swap?” 

He turns around, hoping Ian’s awake enough to hear him, hoping he gets what Mickey means, what he needs. 

It’s a second or two before there’s a rumple of the covers and an arm folds around Mickey’s waist. A hand holds onto his wrist. Wet lips press into the nape of his neck. It still blows Mickey’s mind sometimes, how Ian gets it. How Ian knows what Mickey needs. 

*

Ian doesn’t get it. 

_Goddamn it._ He hasn’t even followed Mickey. Just stayed with that idiot Brookes. With those shitty black chairs. Fucking damage control probably. Mickey’s the damage. Mickey’s the damage and his head’s full of bridesmaids in bright pink. 

_Does Ian think he’s being unreasonable?_

He wipes a heavy hand over his mouth, fishes the smokes out of the pocket of his denim jacket. Blinks away a couple stray tears. Bridesmaids in pink, the one who banged both Iggy and Colin… His hands are shaking. He can’t get the smoke in his mouth. 

He leans one hand against a streetlamp, his mouth finally closing around the cigarette. 

He takes it out again fast. He brings his hand to his throat as if to loosen something around it. All that’s there’s his shirt, the collar of his jacket. 

Bridesmaids in pink, the one who banged both Iggy and Colin, that threadbare banner with the heart on it. 

He puts the smoke back in his mouth. Grips the lighter in his right hand and brings it up. He takes a long drag and his head starts to spin with the nicotine. 

OK. So he put way too much on Ian’s plate. Mickey should be able to handle this. He should just do everything himself. His shakes let up and his breathing steadies as he smokes down his cigarette. He gets his phone out from his jeans and finds Sandy’s number. 

Bridesmaids in pink, the one Iggy and Collin both banged, that shitty suit he got into twice, that dumb banner with the heart on it, those collapsible wooden chairs, the boys from the gun club.

*

“Yo, Black Mamba!” Lip calls to him, from where he’s wrenching something on a bike in the yard. 

Mickey scowls at him, picking the smoke out his mouth. He’s running through them fast. “The fuck?” 

“The Bride? _Kill Bill_?” Lip shouts through the wind. He huffs and quietens as Mickey approaches. “Guess you’re too gay to appreciate Uma Thurman.” 

“What so the gays can’t recognize good Kung Fu now?” Mickey’s done with this shit today, gesticulating with the smoke in his hand while he crosses the yard. “Where the fuck’s your RSVP, prejudice?” 

Lip breathes out a laugh. “Didn’t think family needed to RSVP, Mick. Obviously I’m gonna be there.”

“Oh it’s obvious huh? What happened to getting the hell out of Dodge?” 

The smile fades on Lip’s face. “Moving after, I guess.” He stands up fully, searches his pockets for something. “Tami quit her job at the salon.”

“Christ.” Mickey offers him a smoke, even though he’s only got a couple left, as it looks like that’s what Lip’s after. Lip shakes his head at the pack. “As long as you know little Freddie’s gonna grow up with a stupid accent and a beer belly.”

Lip chuckles again, finally finding what he was looking for. Oh, his vape. Mickey’s already given him shit for it but he raises an eyebrow anyway as Lip takes a furtive toke. “Well, he’s a Gallagher. That was always going to be a possibility.” 

From Mickey’s experience, Gallaghers are pretty jacked, but he doesn’t bother to correct him. 

“Hey punk!” Lip calls over his head and Mickey turns to look. Liam’s mooching up the yard, his backpack strapped over both of his hunched shoulders. Mickey wonders if he made it across the city to get Frank or if he had to drop out after all. “Doing OK?” 

“Fine.” Liam sighs, already at the door, opening and shutting it behind him before Mickey can follow. Mickey glances back to Lip and sees his eyes are squeezed closed, the tips of his fingers pressing into them. 

Mickey chucks the dead end of his smoke, looking away from him. He re-opens the door that Liam shut. “No one’s putting a gun to your head, you know, Milwaukee. You can live wherever the fuck you want.”

He shuts the door after him. 

*

It’s warmer inside. Mickey shucks out of his denim jacket, taking a deep breath. 

Sandy’s sprawled on the couch, eating chips and apparently watching a documentary about the history of cartoons. When Debbie comes out of the bathroom wearing a tux and Mickey’s cousin’s eyes rake over her, it becomes apparent what Sandy’s actually doing. 

“Get the rings?” 

“Kitchen counter.” Sandy smiles at him before turning back to Debbie with a smirk. “Looking pretty sharp, slut.” 

“Thanks.” Debbie giggles. Mickey raises an eyebrow but he’s not really surprised. That Milkovich treatment goes down like honey with this family. “Shit, I gotta go. Think I can pull this off?” 

“Hmmm, maybe. You’re pretty fast with that bowtie now so…” Sandy’s lazy voice follows Mickey to the kitchen where he gets a couple beers out the fridge. He closes it and pauses. Opens it up. Gets another one. 

Mickey turns to the box on the counter. He unclasps it and lets out a breath. Sandy’s done a good job. Two black bands stand out among the gold and silver. 

“You steal these?” He calls. 

“Something borrowed!” It’s Debbie who replies. 

Mickey moves back through, offers a beer to Debbie. He pulls it back when she tries to take it. “You RSVP yet?” 

Debbie rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Mick. I’m obviously coming.” 

Do all Gallaghers call him ‘Mick’ now? Mickey hands her the beer. 

He sinks low on the couch next to Sandy and she takes the other one, clinking it against his own. She holds it up and raises her eyebrows at Debbie. “Good luck.” 

Fuck, Sandy might as well straight up wink at her. Debbie takes a hard sip of beer and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Gonna need it.” 

Sandy’s still smiling after Debbie’s gone. 

“You hit that yet?” 

“Fuck off.” Sandy laughs and shoves him like both she and Mandy have both done a million times before. “You feeling better now?” 

“Fuck off,” Mickey repeats, shoves her back. He lets the brief memory of his sister retreat back into the recesses of his mind. Mandy’s not RSVP’d. 

He takes a sip of beer and closes his eyes. He hears Sandy stretch up and hit the cushion next to him again with a thud. Then there’s the crinkling of paper and the scratch of a pen. 

Mickey opens his eyes slowly. Sandy’s got the pen between her teeth and a joint in her hand. She can’t sit like a normal person to save her life. 

“Flowers. I got that shit covered. And the cake. Still need vows, suits, music. You get a minister? We could give that one to Ian. Bamboo confirmed by the way.” 

Mickey takes another sip of beer. He sighs. Looks up at Sandy through his eyelashes. 

“Ey, Sandra Dee, you be my best man?” 

Sandy grins. “Sure.” She hands him the joint. “But Mickey, I told you before, I’ll tell you again, that makes you Frenchie.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, smoke billowing around the pair of them. “And I already told you. I’m fuckin Rizzo.”

*

“This is still about Terry right? You don’t give a shit about weddings?” 

“Where the fuck’s your ring?” 

“I… must have… left it next to the sink.” 

Mickey draws a finger up to his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to stop himself from spiraling for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

Yeah, Ian knelt down on the floor of that hipster bar and told Mickey that he loved him, more than _anything_. 

But did Mickey strong-arm him into this whole thing? Into getting married? Does he really want it?

 _Does he want it like Mickey does?_ In front of _everyone_? 

“I can’t even…” 

“I can see why you called.” Sandy’s voice drags him back. And Mickey breathes. At least Ian’s scampered off to get the ring. Yeah, and it _is_ still about Terry. 

So everyone can see that Mickey hasn’t let him win. So that miserable fuck can choke on Mickey’s happiness. If only Mickey could find it. 

*

“Why can’t we just be Ian and Mickey?” 

Mickey glances up at Ian and screws up his face. He knows they can’t but he doesn’t know why. That sounds… that sounds… 

Then the guy starts playing _Livin’ on a Prayer_ and Ian looks at him with those patient, loved-up eyes. They’re fond, a little tentative, and a little smug too. Mickey’s shoulders fall. His jaw relaxes. He looks down. 

He looks back at Ian and reaches out for his hand across the table. It’s warm and soft. 

“You’re a sneaky bastard.” 

Ian grins at him. In the low light of the Alibi, Ian’s smile is almost too bright to look at. It’s like warmth bursts out of it. He’s brimming with it. Overflowing. It crackles through their joined hands and into Mickey too, spreading through him, making him feel like he’s glowing. 

_Ian and Mickey_. 

That sounds… good. That sounds right. 

* 

“So,” Ian says, hobbling down the street next to Mickey. “I decided on what song I want for the ceremony. No offence, grandpa, but there’s no way we’re having Bon Jovi.” 

Mickey grins. He gives Ian the finger. “What’s the song then, stumpy?”

“It’s a surprise.” Ian pauses to get his footing. “So long as you trust me?” 

“I don’t know about that, man.” Ian tries to kick him with his boot and Mickey laughs, easily stepping out of range. He bites his lip. “Yeah, OK.” 

“Really?” Ian’s eyes are starry again, lit up by the streetlamps, and following Mickey as he hops back onto the sidewalk. 

“I mean so long as it’s not Cotton-Eye Joe.” Mickey pauses. Rubs under his bottom lip as they start to move again. “You want me to walk down the aisle to it?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Mickey’s quiet. “I already did the standing waiting thing.” 

“I remember.” 

“I know.” 

“This is different though, Mick.” 

“Obviously.” 

*

Later, when Mickey’s lying in bed in his boxers and ordering shit on his phone, Ian stumbles into their bedroom, freshly showered.

“So Fiona can’t make it.” He looks down at Mickey, hesitates. “Don’t think Mandy’s coming either.” 

Mickey runs his tongue over his top teeth. Does that mean Ian’s spoken to her? He doesn’t really have anything to say about that. It won’t make a difference. 

“Colin and Jamie wanna come,” Mickey offers instead, putting the phone down on the mattress next to him. He never would’ve imagined, even if he was prone to imagining these things, Colin and Jamie instead of Mandy and Fiona at their wedding but life is weird like that sometimes. “They’re afraid of dad though.” 

Ian blinks at him. “Who isn’t?” 

Mickey pushes his tongue into the side of his cheek. He sends Ian a dark look as his mouth unsticks. His voice is low, insistent. “We’re not.” 

Ian huffs at that. “No…” he agrees, a half smile growing on his face. “But that’s because we’re both fucking crazy. You know that right?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. He reaches out a hand to tug at the towel around Ian’s waist. Ian just manages to avoid him, takes him by the wrist, runs his palm up Mickey’s forearm. It’s nice as hell to be able to make fun of this. “You’re the fucking crazy one, remember that, Gallagher.” 

“Sure about that, Milkovich?” Ian cocks his head to the side, pondering. “Which one of us busted out of prison, remind me?” 

“OK,” Mickey chuckles, shaking out of his grip, lazily making for the towel again. 

“Wait… I can’t remember…” Ian grips onto him again. “Which one of us deliberately got himself sent back to prison?” 

“OK,” Mickey repeats, breaking free again, laughing now. “You made your point, amnesia.” 

“Which is?” Ian’s good knee drops beside him in the bed, his hand finds Mickey’s chest, lies flat on top of it. He’s a little wet and warm, smells like his minty shower gel.

Mickey smiles at him. He glances up to Ian’s damp ruffled hair and back to his soft green eyes. He lets his hand card through the red strands. His voice is soft. “We’re both fucking crazy.” 

*

Ian gives it to him good and hard that night so Mickey’s boneless, sated, when he drifts off and finds himself back in that familiar fucking bathroom. 

He’s clinging tight to something that’s barely breathing and he’s looking at himself as the ceiling drips above them. 

_Mickey,_ the older version of him says. _Give it to me._

Mickey’s crying. 

The more Mickey tries to stop, the worse it gets. The tears are running down his cheeks now. Racing. 

It’s gentle and small. Cradled between the palms of his hands. Pulse beating. And there’s the man again. With the blue eyes and black hair. Looking at Mickey. Seeing him cry. 

He can’t be like this. He’s going to get hit. Mickey braces himself for it. Tenses. Tries to make words with his mouth. Words that’ll get this man to know that Mickey’s not a little bitch. Like I’m not a pussy. Like _Are you a fucking fag?_

What comes out between sobs is dumb, though, is gonna get him pistol-whipped. 

_I can’t._

_I know._ The guy says. Soft as shit. All strange. All wrong. _How the fuck are you meant to take care of it? You’re just a kid._

Mickey stares at him. There’s another tattoo on his arm. A skull. With words in Spanish maybe? Mickey’s not even good at reading English so there’s no way he could know what it means. The man looks strong. He looks healthy. He looks tough. But how the fuck can he be when he’s so fucking tender? When he’s being so nice to Mickey? 

And Mickey wants to tell him to nut up. _Hit me. I deserve to be hit_. But instead he says, quiet, shakily, _It’s sick._

The man sighs. He scratches his eyebrow. 

_I’m sorry,_ says Mickey. And he’s still crying so he adds _I’m not a little bitch._

Something cracks. The man’s blue eyes flit to Mickey’s. And fuck, if he doesn’t look like his heart is breaking. 

_No, kid,_ he says, quiet as anything. _None of this shit is your fault._

Mickey bites down hard on his bottom lip. 

The man’s biting his bottom lip too. 

Mickey puts the small thing, the shivery thing, into the man’s hands. 

The man closes his eyes, relieved. He brings his hands to his mouth and blows through the gap between his thumbs, spreading hot air around the place where it’s nestled, like how Mickey warms his hands up in the winter. 

_It’ll be alright,_ the man tells him. _I’ll keep it safe._

Mickey nods. He wipes the sleeve of his jumper over his face, over the tears and the snot. 

The man leans towards him. He presses a kiss to Mickey’s forehead. Then he turns and he climbs out the window again.

Mickey’s heart hammers. He peers at the man through the glass. Those sharp blue eyes. _I don’t want you to go._

The man stares back at him. 

_I don’t want to leave you here._ He looks away for a second and then back. _But I can’t stay, OK? I gotta… I’m getting married._

Mickey blinks at him. 

And then the man leaves. The other, older version of Mickey leaves. He’s got the soft thing. And the Mickey here, little Mickey, doesn’t have anything. Through the door his dad is yelling. Calling Mandy a lazy bitch. Telling Colin he’s a dumb fuck. Telling Sandy to get the fuck out this ain’t her house. He could have fucked up a deal or lost a bet or maybe someone disrespected him at the Alibi. 

Mickey looks around for something to use as a weapon. He finds a comb. Not long ago, his dad taught him how to turn it into a shiv. Him and Iggy. 

Mickey just has to file it. 

*

The Bamboo Lotus is on fire. 

Mickey, Ian, Sandy, Debbie and Carl are staring at the masses of smoke billowing out from blocks away. It wasn’t a couple of seconds ago he and Ian’d been lying in their old bed, Ian’s legs over his, Mickey’s hand rolling up his thigh. Fresh from a round of face-to-face banging in front of the nice suits Mickey’d got them, following from when Ian’d blown him in the shower and Mickey’d stuck two fingers up Ian’s ass while he jacked him off slow. Mickey’d swaggered into Ian’s old bedroom, asked him if he’d taken his meds, and lifted up Ian’s sulky ass chin with those same fingers, before Ian grabbed him by the hips and pulled him out and in. Mickey was so happy and dicknotized and in love he almost forgot to tell Carl to get the fuck out. 

They don’t know why it’s on fire. But they _know_ why it’s on fire. 

When they get a closer look, there’s no mistaking it. 

Mickey takes off at walk, and then a run. 

Fucking lucky he busted up stumpy’s leg. He’s stashed his guns in the kids’ bedroom. He’s not picky. Grabs and loads a shotgun. Back with the white and black suits. Back where Ian’d dropped the towel from around Mickey’s waist while he was still fully clothed. 

“Terry Milkovich! I’m coming for you! You fucking pissfucker!” 

He makes it halfway across the yard before Sandy’s on top of him. And then fucking Gallagher too. He fires a shot at the van. Sinks his teeth into Ian’s wrist. Gallagher hits him round the face. Gets the gun out from beneath him. Ian’s holding him down by the wrists like he’s done a hundred times before. Mickey can’t usually get out of this shit. But he can fucking try. 

“You done?” Ian asks. Mickey’s still, his breath coming out shallow and hot. Waiting for the grip to loosen slightly before he launches back at Gallagher. 

“You gonna make me hit you again?” 

“Fuck you Gallagher” 

The blow cuts across Mickey’s face. Sandy gets his arm pinned back. 

“Now you done?” 

Yeah. OK. 

For now. He’s done. 

*

He’s gonna kill him. At least the beer’s going down well. His eye’s stinging, swelling up and probably rapidly blackening, the skin around it tender under the bag of peas.

Mickey’s thinking _Mortal Kombat_ style, Sub Zero’s Spinal Rip Fatality. _FINISH HIM_. The shotgun’s still lying on the counter so it’d probably be easier to take that and the chair he’s strapped to round the Milkovich house. Can’t even enjoy being in handcuffs. He puts the peas and beer down, checks how easy it is to the lift the chair.

Gallagher sends him a dark, warning look from where he’s icing his knuckles. It’s pretty similar to the one he gave him when Mickey suggested shoving his shotgun down Terry’s throat a few moments ago.

Mickey squirms under it, waits until Ian’s turned away to say something else to Debbie about how they should’ve just got married at the court house. Well, yeah, maybe, if Gallagher’d signed the fucking papers in the first place. 

Mickey springs up, half-grabbing half-dragging the chair, reaches for the gun. 

“ _Jesus_ , Mick.” Ian’s on him in an instant. Sending the gun spinning away and grabbing hold of his wrists, the chair dislodging to the floor. 

Debbie swipes up the gun and Carl and Sandy help Ian to restrain him. 

On reflection that had been a pretty stupid move. 

“Put him up on the dryer,” Ian says. And Mickey has to undergo the whole embarrassing process of being hoisted up and re-chained on the other side of the room. 

When they’re satisfied he’s secure, Mickey swipes his nose with his free hand. His face has started to ache even more. “Could you at least pass me my fucking beer?” 

Ian gives him the beer and the bag of frozen peas. 

*

“No. _No._ It is over. It is over and done. Dad fucking wins, _again_ , like he always does.” Mickey stares at Ian. Which time is _he_ thinking about? Could be a thousand different things but also just the one—just that one thing between them two and Svetlana—just that one fucking thing that they can never talk about. He turns to Sandy, because Mickey and Sandy share some secrets too. From when they were little kids. No candy at Halloween. No presents at Christmas. That shitty year Mickey spent in a group home. And him and Ian spent all that time apart. They can blame each other as much as they like but his dad’s the only one who pressed the barrel of a gun to Mickey’s head and took every fucking thing he ever dreamed of from him. “Look, I love you. I _love_ you. That son of a bitch needs to die. Today.” 

Everyone ignores him. Ian’s eyes flit away from Mickey to his brother. They talk about the Polish Doll. 

*

Carl and Sandy are by the door now, both on Sandy’s phone. Vee and Kev talking to each over low over the counter. 

Ian still has that watchful expression, like he’s waiting for Mickey to pull a Houdini and miraculously escape. But when he finds his way over to Mickey with another beer, it feels more like they’re alone. Ian glances at the cuff around Mickey’s wrist and back to his eyes. Mickey knows what he’s thinking. 

“Really Gallagher?” 

“What? You look good like that.” 

“Fuck you.” Mickey says, heart not really in it, and Ian sobers. Stops trying to be light. Mickey stares him down.

“We’re gonna get married, Mick. Even it’s just at the courthouse.” Ian stops. He searches for something else. “Terry hasn’t won. He’s on the wrong side of history.”

Mickey scoffs. The fuck does that matter? This isn’t about the whole of the world. About history. It’s about them. About Mickey. About what his dad did to him.

“I hate him more than you do.” Ian says, his voice low, full of certainty. He stops. Breathes. Gears himself up. His voice is quiet. “I had to watch him hurt you—”

Ian can’t carry on and Mickey’s head drops. He readjusts his jaw. He can’t look at Ian. It’s too much. 

“I’m not going to let it happen again.” 

“Too fuckin late.”

Ian’s eyes are glued to the top of Mickey’s head. His hand comes out to Mickey’s neck and jaw, and Mickey’s treacherous fucking body can’t help but lean into it. Ian uses the vantage to bring Mickey’s head up again. He must see something in Mickey’s eyes. In the set of his jaw. He drops his hand, abrupt.

“I’m not letting you go back to prison.” 

Mickey’s hands curl into fists. He doesn’t give a fuck what Gallagher is or isn’t letting him do. 

“It safe to uncuff Mickey yet?” Carl’s voice comes across the kitchen.

“No.” Sandy and Ian answer simultaneously, and Mickey glares at the pair of them. 

*

As soon as Mickey’s wrist comes free, the metal split open in Ian’s hand, Mickey’s voice is low and quiet.

“Bring those up.” 

Ian follows him, holding them, Mickey hopes.

Mickey didn’t check his eyes. Didn’t wait before going up the stairs. Doesn’t check behind him. Just takes his shirt off as he goes, kneels down to quickly unlace his boots. He kicks them off and starts to tug the sweatpants down too. 

“Wait. Leave them on a sec.” 

Mickey turns back to Ian closing the accordion door. He gets up, leaving the sweats. Sits on the edge of the bed. 

Ian turns to him. He’s holding the cuffs. “Don’t have much time.” Mickey can see the angry marks he made in Ian’s arm. “Wanted to take my time with these.”

 _Ian_. Mickey wants to say. _We have all the time._

And they almost do. They almost did. If this wedding happens. If everything doesn’t go to shit like it usually does. If Terry didn’t exist. Or if Mickey could kill him like he needs to. And even then. Weird shit happens. Life ends. Things change. There’s never enough time. 

Mickey wants it now. Wants the feel of them around his wrists again. This time just for Ian. Just for Ian. They haven’t used handcuffs like this since that summer. That summer they both feel guilty about. 

“I think we should have safe words and shit.”

Mickey scoffs, tugs at the string on Ian’s red pants. “We never did that shit before.”

“Yeah, but we gotta be more careful now we’re getting married.” 

“OK, Gallagher.” Mickey shoves him a little bit. “Can my safe word be ‘you’re a fucking pussy?’” 

“Scooch up.” Ian says, rolling his eyes. And Mickey crawls back on the bed. Bare chested but with his sweats (Ian’s sweats) still on. 

He picks his arms up behind and above him, exposing his armpits. His wrists brush one another. He stares at Ian open mouthed. 

He swears he sees Ian’s eyes darken just a shade. 

Ian leans over him. There’s the click of a cuff round one wrist, the rattle as Ian wraps the chain round the headboard, and then the other cuff clicks in place too. Mickey tugs at them, and Ian’s eyes flit down and see Mickey breathe a laugh. Ian tries a smile too. But he looks too serious. Kind of earnest, which makes Mickey smile at him more. It’s fucking precious. 

Ian lowers himself down between Mickey’s legs and runs a finger up the crack of his ass through the sweatpants. 

“Fuck.” The touch shocks Mickey out of his grin. Ian palms his dick through the fabric and stares at him. 

“Look so fucking good like that Mickey. Waiting for me.”

Mickey wets his lips. Goes for challenging. “Always waiting for you, Gallagher.” 

Ian drops his gaze. He’s sober for a moment, and it’s like Mickey’s reply takes on way more meaning than intended. But then Ian manages a soft, secret smile as he runs a hand up to Mickey’s chest. His palm is flat, the ring cold against Mickey’s skin, fingers running over the nipple just below Mickey’s _Ian Galager_ tattoo, then his thumb. Circling it. Rubbing over it. Mickey feels it harden, like his cock is beginning to under Ian’s other hand. 

“What about the other one?” 

Ian’s hands stop. His eyes flit back to where Mickey’s biting his lip.

“Who the fuck’s in charge Mick?”

Mickey feels his face start to heat. His lip escapes from under his teeth. He scoffs but he knows Ian can feel him rapidly hardening in his grip. It’s embarrassing—exposing—still. Even while it’s so good. How fast that shit gets him going. 

Ian’s hand moves again to the other nipple. He flicks it. Just the once. Glances up to Mickey’s eyes again. Moves his hand towards his mouth. 

“Lick.” 

Mickey obliges, holding Ian’s gaze. But he makes the lick fucking filthy just to get back a touch of power. He spills the build up of saliva in his mouth up along and in between Ian’s fingers, paying extra attention to the ring there. He gives Ian an open mouthed grin as Ian takes his hand away and rolls his eyes. Flicks the excess wetness back into Mickey’s face, so Mickey has to screw his eyes shut and grin wider.

Ian slaps the wet hand down onto Mickey’s other nipple. Tugs at it almost too much, giving Mickey a sardonic smile. 

“Feel better?” 

“Thought we didn’t have much time, Gallagher.”

Ian watches him for a moment, then slaps him lightly on the cheek. Mickey rattles the chain above him. Wants to fight back. 

Ian grins at him. 

“You like that, don’t you?” 

Mickey’s not even sure it’s a question. He’s not going to say yes even though it’s true. He swallows. Hides the smallest smile. 

“Fuck you.” 

“OK. If you don’t want it…” Ian smiles back, a pretty devilish smile, leans down quickly and strips Mickey of his sweatpants and his boxers in one. “Better get you ready. Seeing as there’s not much time.”

 _Ian_ Mickey holds back again. _There’s all the time_. 

There’s never all the time. There’s only ever here and now. Here, under Ian, where he likes to be. Now, Ian’s fingers slick with Mickey’s spit over his balls, around his dick, circling his asshole. Now, just before their wedding. Now, when Mickey’s tipsy with beer and the fading buzz of homicidal rage. Now, when it was supposed to be so perfect.

Just. Make it last. Live every fucking second when he gets to have this, and do everything to keep them coming. All the things he wants Ian to do to him. All the things he wants to do back. Things he can’t even admit to yet. Things he can’t start to articulate. But they’re there. Image after image, multiplying. Fucking filthy things. Sweet things. Things that make him feel like a little bitch. Responsible grown-up things. Shit that strips him bare. Strips him bare so he can just let go. Or fucking gives him wings. Lets him make choices and demands. 

Ian lubes up his fingers. Spreads one sticky hand over Mickey’s stomach. He pushes a finger—two fingers—in. 

“Fu-uck.” Mickey’s voice breaks like they haven’t done this a million times before.

Ian glances up at him, so fond and so serious, and then concentrates on Mickey’s ass again, like he doesn’t know it better than his way around Canaryville. 

Mickey wants Ian to fuck his mouth. He wants Ian to slap him round the face harder with the palm of his hand, so Mickey feels the indent of the ring, or with his dick even. To rub it over Mickey’s lips. To thrust against the back of his throat. To make his eyes water. _You like that, don’t you?_

 _Fuck you_.

Yeah. Yeah. He likes it but Ian won’t do it unless—until—he asks for it. 

There are other things he wants too. He wonders what it would be like to cuff Ian. To watch him writhe and do things to him. To strap him to the bed and ride him. To fuck him, maybe. Mickey wants that too. 

He wants to imagine a million chances to ask. He wants to imagine their time spreading out in front of them like Mickey’s legs always do for Ian. But his dad’s still alive. Terry’s still alive and—

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice brings him back from between his legs. He pauses. Two—three—fingers deep in his ass. “You OK?”

Mickey nods. He rattles the chains a little. 

“What do you want?” 

Mickey folds his bottom lip into his mouth. “I want...”

He wants so much. He never realized how much he wanted before Ian. And then, there it was, buried behind so many carefully constructed layers. That deep well of want. Ian somehow found it, tapped into it. Just dribbling at first, and then spilling over, and now overflowing, out beyond the edges of his body. Can’t stem the flow. Can’t even try. Doesn’t want to anymore. 

“Mickey?” Ian’s waiting for him, watching him carefully, slowly withdrawing his fingers. 

Mickey’s precum’s getting the sheets wet, all over his dick and thighs. His arms are starting to ache. He closes his eyes. Sees the blurred lights on the back of his eyelids.

“I want to touch you.” 

Ian relents immediately. He’s so soft. So easy. Grabs the key off the bedside table and unlocks the cuffs. Gazing at Mickey like he just said the most beautiful thing in the world. He rubs Mickey’s wrists, brings one to brush his lips, but he doesn’t get much time to kiss it before Mickey’s rolling on top of him, laughing. 

“So _easy_ , Gallagher.” Mickey rolls his hands up and down Ian’s flat chest. Down to his eagle tattoo, up over his pink nipples, the light freckles on his shoulders. Down again over his abs. Up to his jaw. Mickey holds it between his index finger and thumb, gazes back at Ian’s stunned expression for a moment. Then Mickey lightly slaps Ian across the cheek. Fucking finally gets him back. He grins. 

“You’re just _so tough_.” Mickey teases, voice goading and sweet, starts to tickle Ian’s sides lightly. “ _You like that don’t you?_ ” 

He watches Ian try not to grin back, ineffectively batting him off. “Shut up, Mickey.” 

Mickey laughs at him. “ _We need to have safe words Mickey. We need to be careful Mickey._ ” 

Ian smiles under him, breathy laughs escaping him. “Fuck you.” 

He bends down and kisses Ian’s right pec. Then does it again. Then kisses the other one. Rests his chin in the middle of Ian’s chest. 

“How much time we got?” 

“About a half hour.” 

Good. Yeah. Ian’s been keeping the time like Mickey expected. He can count on Ian for structure like that. 

“To shower and get changed too?” 

“Pretty much.” Ian’s started gazing at him again. That dopey fucking gaze. “Maybe a bit more.” 

“Don’t wanna be late though.” Mickey’s voice starts soft, then turns sharp again. “You’ll miss me and Debbie’s first dance.” 

Ian’s dumb soft gaze can go hard quick. He rolls his eyes. “Mickey.” 

_It’s going to happen._ That’s what Ian’s eyes are telling him again. _It’s going to fucking happen._

 _We’re going to get married._

“OK.” Mickey allows it. “You’ll miss _our_ first dance.” 

“We’re gonna dance?” Ian half teases. But it’s half serious too. There’s a tentative hope in his eyes that makes Mickey melt. 

“’Course we are.” Mickey stares down at him, basks in the gentleness for a moment before he wets his lips again, shifts back onto Ian’s dick. “First I’m gonna ride you quick. That OK, you fucking alpha?” 

Ian’s caught between breathing in sharply and rolling his eyes. He swallows. Nods. 

Mickey leans down and kisses him. His mouth is soft. 

“I love you,” Ian murmurs into his mouth between kisses. “You know that I love you.”

“You make me feel so good, man,” Mickey murmurs back. “So safe. And so fucking good.”

Ian’s eyes follow Mickey when he pulls away. They’re starry, fond as hell, like Mickey’s just figured out how to scam all the billionaires in the world into sharing their wealth. It makes Mickey grin wide, grind down hard onto Ian’s dick. How the fuck did he expect Ian to go all dominant on him like this? His boy’s so fucked up on Mickey. It’s so obvious. He’s so nervous and excited and scared about the wedding. They both are. 

He’s glad though that Ian let him out so easy. Glad Ian’s always watching, attentive and receptive to any shift in Mickey, always checking Mickey’s OK when they play like this. And always checking in on him in general. It’s just confirmation on confirmation on confirmation. _You’re safe Mick._ _I got you_.

Mickey takes Ian’s sweats and boxers down at last, watches his dick spring out. He licks his palm and gives it a few strokes. And they’re meant to be getting ready. Don’t have much time, but Mickey lets Ian be in charge of time again. He forgets all about time as he lowers himself down onto Ian’s dick. As Ian breathes out _Fuck._ And Mickey feels it stretching him open. Somehow wraps his mouth round Ian’s name.

Mickey forgets all about the fucking fantastic wedding he planned and planned so hard as he starts to move up and down, as he sees Ian’s neck extend, his mouth split open. As Ian breathes _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_.

He forgets about how he’s scared it’s not going to happen. How he’s scared it _will_ happen. 

He forgets about how exposed, how laid bare, how nakedly _in love_ and _loved_ he’ll be walking down the aisle, in front of everyone. To Ian. 

He lets it disappear for a moment as he clings to the headboard with one hand, his other slick with sweat on Ian’s chest, as he shifts his hips and picks up the pace. 

He’s met with dots of light, shimmering air, the early afternoon haze turning everything in the room into fuzzy shapes. Just _MickeyMickeyMickey_. Just _IanIanIan_. Just Ian. 

“Fuck!” Mickey wraps his hand around his own dick as he starts to come. Onto Ian’s stomach and chest and neck. His ass spasms around Ian’s cock. Again and again and again. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Goddamn. Fuck. Ian.”

 _Ian_. 

* 

Not long after, Mickey’s gazing as Ian fixes his bowtie for him. That same dopey gaze Ian gave him earlier is reflected back at him. 

“You want kids?” Ian’s such a weirdo. Such a cute fucking formal weirdo. Bringing this shit up right now. 

“Hell no,” Mickey replies, soft on him, on this weirdo. It would be fucking batshit insane to have kids with both a cartel and Terry coming after them. It makes him smile though, Ian looking towards their future, planning it all out, more and more and more.

When Ian suggests Mickey should knock out a few with Debbie, Mickey just laughs. Fuck this nerd. “You want me banging your little sister?” 

“Probably be too weird.” 

“Yeah, you think?” 

“I wouldn’t mind a kid or two though.” The prick knows exactly what he’s doing, bringing this up now, when Mickey would agree to just about anything. His eyes are so sincere when they look up from Mickey’s bowtie. 

Mickey wonders if Ian knows the extent to which he’ll do whatever the fuck Ian wants. Maybe he does and maybe it scares him. He knows Ian needs to hear no from him sometimes. But if he didn’t need that, Mickey wouldn’t love him like he does. Wouldn’t want to say yes all the fucking time.

“Well, there’s plenty of strays running round the neighborhood.” Mickey relents. “I’m sure we could pick one up for cheap.” 

Ian finishes with Mickey’s collar. “Wow, you’re an ugly motherfucker.” 

Mickey smiles back at him. “Least I don’t have to hide in a coffin until the sun comes up.” 

“You ready to do this, Milkovich?” 

“Damn straight, Gallagher”

*

If Mickey knows anything, he knows that love is an action not a state of mind. It’s not about a piece of paper from the state or a promise that you’ll always be together. It’s about doing shit and stepping up and making sure the other person feels safe to be themselves. It’s about being there and letting go and always fucking seeing each other. It’s about saying what you need and being able to listen. 

He’s still working on those last ones. On all of them. Because mostly, love’s about trying. And Mickey might be Southside forever but he could write whole books about love now. He knows that shit intimately. 

And when the music starts, when it’s Etta James for fuck’s sake, and Mickey’s got to walk down towards him, towards Ian, who’s looking at Mickey, like… like… _that_ , Mickey knows he’s going to try harder. 

He swears to himself with an intensity that feels different, even though it’s a promise he’s made a million times, he’s going to try harder. To talk. To tell Ian what he needs. To make Ian feel safe to talk too. Safe to be himself in every fucking way. Safe to tell Mickey what he needs of him. Without Mickey hearing _I’m going to leave you_. Without Mickey hearing _You don’t deserve to have this_. Because now, with Sandy gripping onto his arm and looking like she might cry, with little Franny in front, haphazard, in a haze of petals, and all these people, clean and dressed up, Gallaghers and Gallagher-adjacents, ex-army queens, queens from the club, gay Jesus groupies, EMTs, parolees risking their probation, Alibi regulars, and weirdest of all, the odd Milkovich, watching him walk up to Ian, who is so still and tall and beautiful, Mickey feels like the luckiest person in the world. Like he can’t close his eyes in case it all disappears. Like he can’t look at Ian in case he’s not real. Like he can’t look anywhere in case none of this is real and they decide, after all, it’s not OK to be gay and poor and from the Southside, it’s not OK to love someone and to show it. 

But how the fuck would he hide it? He tried, once upon a time, and now he’s sure, he’s certain, it pours off every single part of him. Every breath he breathes smells of it. Every glance he casts projects it. He knows because when he looks at Ian, when he hears Ian’s shaky breath as Mickey looks down and away at the end of the aisle, when he feels Ian’s presence, open and nervous, right next to him, it’s clear as day.

 _I love you_

_I know_

Mickey wants to do it right, wants to get the vows right, wants to say them with the seriousness, with the honesty and sincerity that they deserve, that he’s felt inside of himself, for a long time now. _Sickness and health and all that shit_. 

Mickey doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his hands, with his eyes that can’t stop scanning Ian’s face, about the fact time’s moving slow and fast all at once, about the fact he wants to get this wedding right, and this is only now, this is only once, this is happening now.

And then Ian smiles at him when he says _Mickey_. And Mickey does know something. He knows how Ian always brings him back to the moment, to them, to _us_ , to Ian and Mickey. 

He knows something fucking crazy. They’ve got something beautiful. 

*

Mickey’s only a few beers away from drunk. And he’s meant to be able to get it up on his wedding night, right? Him and Ian have only banged like four times today. Also he had a lot to drink earlier. He got a head injury. He almost killed his dad. He can still feel it inside him when he checks, simmering below the joy. That rage. 

God, though, it’s good to drink cold beer and dance to shit music with Sandy and Liam. 

Fuck it, the music’s good, even though Mickey wouldn’t say that out loud. The cake was good too, but a bit dry, and Mickey liked the ornament on top, whoever’s idea that was. Maybe he ate a bit too much. Maybe he enjoyed shoving cake in Ian’s mouth a bit too much too. Maybe he’d prefer it if Frank and the Polish lady weren’t finger banging each other fifteen yards away. He’d definitely prefer it if Ian was still there. Mickey stops to look around for him, for his… _fuck_ , for his husband. His _husband_. 

And there he is, crossing the dance floor with his stumpy leg. Ian’s eyes are glassy and Mickey holds out a hand for him. 

Ian takes it. Mickey pulls him in and nuzzles into his neck, wraps his arms around him, one hand still holding his beer. 

The music’s shifted to something slow but Mickey hardly notices it as they sway, tight to each other, as he feels Ian’s hot breath on his neck near his ear. 

“You OK?” Mickey asks, eventually, as the song comes to an end. 

Ian sniffs, draws away just a touch. His voice is quiet. “Wish my mom was here.” 

Mickey pulls Ian back to him, presses his lips to the damp skin below his ear. Mickey’s fingers find the place where Ian’s skull meets his neck. Mickey rubs through Ian’s short soft hair and over his smooth warm skin. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says, pressing another kiss onto Ian’s jaw. “I know.” 

Ian melts into him again, and Mickey feels one of his hands on the small of his back, the other at the top of his spine. 

“I’m fucking glad we did this, Mick.” Ian murmurs into him. “Thanks, you know, for—”

“For planning this whole thing?” Mickey runs his hand back into Ian’s hair. “Or for not killing Terry? Because pretty sure I woulda if you hadn’t gone MMA again and chained me to the fucking dryer.” 

Ian leans back and smiles. He presses a soft kiss into Mickey’s lips. “For everything.”


End file.
